


Maybe

by arcadian_dream



Category: Being Human
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:44:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadian_dream/pseuds/arcadian_dream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I can see what you're doing, you know."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe

"I can see what you're doing, you know."

Startled, George, jumps. "Jesus, Annie," he says, "You scared me."

Annie smiles. "I should hope so." George rolls his eyes.

"So,"Annie continues, "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"About what?"

"This," Annie gestures to the closed door of Mitchell's room.

"Well," George says slowly, "It's a door. Made of timber, I think. And if you open it, it gives way to a whole other room. Like magic. Only not. At all."

Now it is Annie's turn to roll her eyes. "Not the door," she says, "the whole other room."

George shakes his head. "Yeah. It's Mitchell's room. What about it?"

"Well," Annie says, glancing coyly from George to Mitchell's room, "Why are you hanging about out here?"

George shrugs. "I'm not," he says, his voice rising steadily.

Annie raises an eyebrow. "You're not?"

"That's right."

"So – you're not hanging about outside Mitchell's room?"

"No."

"And you're not staring longingly at the door?"

"What? No!"

"No?"

"No," George says firmly, finally. _"No."_

"Alright," Annie says, "Just checking." She grins at George, and before he can ask what exactly it is that she's on about, she disappears; leaving George alone, baffled, and wondering just what is on the other side of Mitchell's bedroom door.

*

Annie is in the kitchen making tea when Mitchell comes bounding down the stairs, long legs allowing him to take two steps at a time.

"George in?" he asks as he rounds the corner and heads for the fridge.

Annie shakes her head. "He's at work."

"Right," Mitchell says. Finding nothing of interest in the refrigerator, he takes up a nearby cup of tea. "Did you ask him, then?"

"Ask who what, Mitchell?"

"George. About -" Mitchell places his tea down on the bench; he waves a gloved hand, as though to indicate his meaning.

"Oh," Annie says, _"That."_

"Yes. _That._"

"Not yet," Annie replies, "But I did catch him outside your room."

"So?"

"Well," Annie says; she moves close to Mitchell and smirking, lowers her voice: "Well, Mitchell – either your door is made of some sort of hypnotic, magical timber, or George was hoping for a spontaneous onset of x-ray vision."

Mitchell opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again; dark brows knit together in thoughtfulness as Annie continues: "Thought he was trying to bore a hold right through the wood, for a minute there."

"Really?" Mitchell says.

Annie nods, tight, deep brown curls tumbling against her shoulders: _"Really."_

*

George shuffles hurriedly down the hall toward the bathroom. He heaves the door open and his pyjama pants are halfway down over his thighs before he realises that the facilities are already in use.

"Jesus!" he gasps, fingers scrambling to hitch up his pants as Mitchell steps out of the shower.

"Alright, George," Mitchell says coolly as he reaches for a towel before wrapping it around his slender waist.

"Alright, Mitchell," George squeaks and, fumbling for the damp, steam-soaked doorknob, he flings himself out into the hall once more.

Slamming the door behind him, George takes a moment to catch his breath. Leaning back, he closes his eyes.

"What're you doing hanging about outside the bathroom?" Annie says, appearing suddenly before him. Arms folded, she gazes at him inquisitively.

"Annie," George hisses. "Stop doing that, would you?"

"Doing what?"

"Sneaking up on me like that."

Annie shrugs. "Sorry. Ghost, and all that."

"Yeah, I -" George, however, cannot finish his sentence: the bathroom door gives way behind him and Mitchell steps out into the hall, still clad only in a towel. He runs a hand through dark, wet locks and smiles at George before heading back to his room.

Annie looks from George, to Mitchell, and back to George again; a huge grin lights up her face. _"Ohhh,"_ she says.

"Oh?" George repeats as they watch Mitchell disappear behind the door to his bedroom. "What d'you mean by 'Oh?'"

Annie inclines her head to one side. "Well, you know," she says quietly, her tone of voice almost infuriatingly smug, "You. Mitchell. The bathroom."

"Wha – oh! No! We weren't – there was nothing – we – listen," George says rather more firmly than he feels, "I don't know what you're on about but whatever it is, it isn't that. Alright?"

"Sure," Annie nods.

"Bloody hell. I see being dead has done nothing to stifle your imagination," George mutters before turning away and heading, finally, into the now-unoccupied bathroom.

*

They are walking to work in the early evening when George hears the words tumble out of his mouth:

"Mitchell," he says.

"Yeah?"

"Does Annie seem weird to you?"

Mitchell stops on the footpath; he raises an eyebrow.

"Well, yeah," George says, catching Mitchell's meaning, "I know. But, you know, different. Lately."

"Ah," Mitchell says: _"That."_

"What?" George asks. "What is it?"

"Well – well, Annie thinks that maybe – _maybe_ \- you fancy me."

George lets out a barking laugh but it is too high pitched, too strained and completely not-casual; it echoes around them in the quiet of the night.

"That's a laugh," George manages to say finally as he continues walking.

"Apparently," Mitchell says. Catching George up, he nudges him in the shoulder: "So – you don't then?"

"What?"

"Fancy me?"

George swallows nervously: his mouth is dry and his pulse is racing; so much so that he thinks his heart might be about to scramble up his throat and leap out into the street.

"Because it's alright if you do, you know," Mitchell adds as they walk, side by side.

"If I do what?" George says. He is stalling, and Mitchell knows it, George can tell, but he has the decency not to call him on it.

"If you fancy me. I don't mind. I mean, it's alright."

George continues to say nothing: to neither confirm nor deny; he simply walks on. Mitchell, pauses in the street once more. Quickly, he rounds on George, stepping in front of him, blocking his way.

"Mitchell," George says, "Come on, we'll be late. We've not got time for this and -"

George steps around him, around the possibilities he has raised; but as he does, Mitchell reaches out, grabbing George by the wrist, his fingers, cool and soft, curling over the bone; and he tugs him back.

"I mean it, George," he says quietly, "It's alright."

As he does, he steps closer still; his abdomen brushing against George; his fingers wandering up over George's forearm.

"More than alright."


End file.
